


do i sell my soul along with my duty?

by orphan_account



Series: this is the end [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, Making Out, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 08:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2644877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He takes your face between his hands and you move your fingers up under his shirt, ghosting them against his cold back. You hope he can’t tell that they’re trembling, because looking down at you are the blue eyes that at one time were your favourite thing in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	do i sell my soul along with my duty?

**Author's Note:**

> Found this in my WIPs folder on my laptop, finished it up, and decided to post! Enjoy :)

You think he has potential in his ever beating heart, beating on and on like a marching band falling out of step. You think he has prayers caught in his bones – you wonder if they’re your words echoing in his head or if he would even recognize your voice. You find that you don’t care.

He’s praying or he’s sleeping or he’s high; you can’t tell anymore, it’s all the same. They each have as likely a chance as each other, in the fucked up scheme of things. You nudge his feet towards the middle of the bed and you sit down to take off your boots. He immediately snaps his feet back to place in your lap and you fume silently before you look up and see a light smile on his face. You feel yourself echo the foreign expression before it realizes that it cannot find a home on your face and falls away. You take off your shoes and push them under the bed and you’re left with his feet in your lap.

There’d been a time, once, when you would have smiled and run your fingertips along the arch to make him laugh; there’d been a time when you’d press against his tendons to relieve the pressures of being newly human. Now you just huffed and went to push them off but he dug his toes into your thigh. When you look back at his face he’s still smiling.

“What do you want?” you ask, voice low and gruff, like you haven’t used it in years. It’s too loud in the small cabin.

Cas just hums in the back of his throat but doesn’t answer, so you roll your eyes and try to push him off again. He’s irritated now so he props himself up on his elbows and looks at you with a gaze that would be terrifying if it wasn’t so unfocused; if you hadn’t had the fury of all the Heavenly Host directed at you from behind his eyes before.

“What do you want?” you ask again, looking him in the eye this time.

He licks his lips and looks back at you before moving over and shifting so he can straddle your thighs. He takes your face between his hands and you move your fingers up under his shirt, ghosting them against his cold back. You hope he can’t tell that they’re trembling, because looking down at you are the blue eyes that at one time were your favourite thing in the world. Now it hurts to look because it only reminds you of how profoundly you fucked up.

Again, he doesn’t answer you with words, but this time he leans forwards and presses his mouth against yours.

You breathe out into his mouth and imagine that you can fill his lungs and make his breathing even. The rise and fall of his chest against yours is steady but you can feel yours faltering, your pulse vibrating your collar bones, your ribcage rattling like piano keys.

He’s smirking against your mouth – you can feel it. He doesn’t understand weak knees and failing lungs, doesn’t understand how you get so affected under the weight of _what could have been_ , because it isn’t the man in your lap making you tremble – it’s the man behind his eyes, the angel with blue eyes and an old trench coat that looks good as new.

You wish it was the man on top of you because that would be easier, it would make sense, and maybe it would even hurt less. Sometimes you think he doesn’t care who you are, let alone which version of yourself, so long as you’re warm and pliant beneath his hands and willing to moan into his kisses.

When you open your eyes you see that he’s still looking at you, even as he’s moving in to kiss you again. He arches an eyebrow at you.

“What?” he asks, trailing his fingertips along your ribs.

You want to shiver into his touch but you don’t. “Nothing,” you tell him. “It’s nothing.” You close your eyes and kiss him again and he doesn’t press. You wish he would but you didn’t expect him to.

You wonder if there’s a human soul inside of him or if there’s still just the smallest shred of Grace left making that impossible. You wonder if he’d sell it if he had one; you wonder if you would sell your soul only to get the focus back into his eyes. You think you might.

He kisses you again, open mouthed and hot. You let yourself sink into it, close your eyes and pretend he cares.

_I love you_ , you think, glancing up at him as he lays you back on the old bed. _I’d save you if I could_.


End file.
